


In which Tarvek enjoys a quiet moment with his favorite people

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: blundering onward [1]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Early Days, Ficlet, I stole a writing technique from Edgar Allen Poe for this, Multi, OT3, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 07:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11869599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: Being able to relax is so novel.





	In which Tarvek enjoys a quiet moment with his favorite people

Tarvek’s thumb played across the rich green jacquard, here smooth, there coarse enough to catch on the invisible calluses on his fingertips. He had never felt ashamed of the traces of work on his hands. No, and why should he? He had earned each one, each proof that he passed his time creating rather than consuming. Not right now, though. Now he sat still but for the movement of his thumb, swirling over fabric in time with Agatha’s humming. Coarse, smooth, coarse. Her breath caught a little, fluttering beneath his palm as she squinted one eye at the half-built device in her hand. She jabbed her screwdriver at it and resumed humming. 

Agatha curled against Tarvek’s side, one knee propped over his hip. She had tucked her toes between two cushions, though neither of them could have said quite when. Content to watch her work, Tarvek sat with both arms looped around her waist. He stared a little too hard at the nimble movements of her fingers, his imagination straying. Fingertips on his skin. Hot breath over his collarbone. His thumb twitched, like a cat’s tail betraying its thoughts. Agatha’s tongue flicked against the corner of her lips. Tarvek held his breath, fighting against himself, fighting not to spoil the moment. 

Not that he should have worried. 

Gil chose then to saunter over and fling himself into the seat beside them, landing with all the grace of an oversized hunting hound. Agatha’s humming ended in a note of alarm as the impact launched a tiny screw into the air. Gil caught it—of course he did—and presented it back to her. She pressed a kiss to his knuckle as she took it from him. Tarvek felt his chest tighten, but… in a good way? Uncharted waters, he reminded himself with an inward cringe. 

Gil snaked an arm around Agatha’s shoulders and tugged her toward him. Tarvek kept hold of her waist, but he let Gil pull them both over, tilting like books toward a bookend. Sliding toward him as though they weighed nothing at all. Tarvek bit the inside of his lip where no one could see. Gil’s easy strength, when he forgot to be careful… Agatha’s happy sigh echoed Tarvek’s thoughts. 

His thumb moved in a slow circle. Smooth, coarse, smooth. A neat row of stitching, tiny pebbles against the fabric. A ridge of boning giving firm resistance between two seams. Taking simple pleasure in well-made clothing felt rational and normal. Nothing else did. 

Tarvek flicked his tongue against the scab on his lip. Still fresh enough to taste coppery, it felt rough on his tongue, and a little sore to the touch. Yesterday, Gil had come upon him and Agatha kissing in the corridor. Yesterday, Gil had forgotten his own strength. He had shoved them both against the wall, had pinned them there, growling a little as he’d kissed them both, over and over until Tarvek felt like he was drowning, until he tasted blood. Gil had backed away then, shaking his head and stammering an apology. Remembering how he had whispered a plea even as Gil fled, Tarvek felt his cheeks burn. “Please.” Why would he say that? He tasted his scabbed lip, tasted his own confusion.

Agatha must have sensed him tense. She paused her work long enough to give his hand a brief squeeze. Tarvek felt a wave of gratitude for this and all the other times she noticed his discomfort and offered him reassurance without demanding explanation. If Gil noticed anything amiss, he remained wilfully ignorant, his eyes tracking every movement of Agatha’s fingers with a hunger Tarvek felt all too well. 

Affection starved. That’s what Gkika had said to him last week: “Hy haff nefer seen two boyz so starved for affection.” He had choked down a fleeting and criminally stupid impulse to reply that what he craved did not feel like affection. In terms of life experience, how could one even begin to argue with a Jägergeneral? He stole a lingering glance at Gil. Were they really so bad? So obvious about it?

Without warning, Gil looked up, met his stare. A flush creeping back into his cheeks, Tarvek turned away. Maybe Gkika was right. How would he even know? He had never felt so overwhelmed. Everything he had always known he could never have sat right here with him, three bodies on two seats. 

The weight of Gil’s stare pressed down on him, but neither of them said a word. Fine. Let’s do this. Tarvek lifted his head, and when their gazes locked, he rolled his tongue slowly across the scab on his lip. This time, it was Gil’s face that reddened. He sucked a sharp breath through flared nostrils, and his body went rigid. Too much? Tarvek gave him a small smirk.

“No fighting,” Agatha muttered. “Delicate work.”

“We’re not fighting.” Tarvek pressed a kiss to her temple, the movement taking him nearer to Gil. They watched each other over the top of Agatha’s head, Gil trying not to be flustered and Tarvek fighting a strong urge to push him too far. He liked making Gil react. For far too long, the ability to needle him was all Tarvek had left of their friendship. 

No fighting. Delicate work. Tarvek touched the tip of his tongue to the scab again. Gil’s eyes followed the movement, somehow looking simultaneously ashamed and ravenous. He liked Gil liking that he liked it. And as for the hint of the Spark flickering behind that stare…

Ah. Aha. Tarvek sat up a little, sucked the injured part of his lip into his mouth. The metallic tang of the scab fuelled his thoughts, now racing on a problem that had plagued him for too long already: even if he managed to force the words out of himself, how could he ever say “I have always loved you” without Gil thinking it a lie? But now he could see that the growly, Sparky, possessive part of Gil already wanted to believe it. He hungered for the same reassurances Tarvek craved. He just had to form the words, just had to say it. 

They stared at each other in silence. Tarvek’s arms tightened around Agatha’s waist. His fingers found the firm steel of her corset busk, curled against it. Nothing. His voice had dried up in his throat. 

What a disappointing lack of resolve. His disgust at himself must have shown on his face, for Gil looked away, leaned away. The Agatha-Tarvek stack tilted after him. 

“You frustrate me,” Tarvek muttered, the mild complaint not really directed where it landed. Gil puffed up for a retort. 

“Delicate. Work.” Agatha’s voice resonated with the Spark, so rich, so powerful it drove the vexation from Tarvek’s mind. Feeling weak and shaky inside, he melted against her. Gil might have teased him for swooning, if he were not similarly affected.

Agatha’s humming crescendoed, quickened. Perhaps her Heterodyning reacted to the heartbeats thundering to either side of her. Tarvek grinned. What a fanciful thought. 

A hand brushed against the back of his neck. Tarvek’s thoughts stumbled, his insides freezing up for a second or two, just as they always did when Gil touched him. That’s pretty pathetic. Amused that his inner critic chided him in Violetta’s voice, he took several deep, steadying breaths. Right. Thoughts happen. Even with Agatha humming in his arms. Even with Gil’s hand warm on the back of his neck. 

Fingernails scratched against his skin, nails groomed blunt out of necessity rather than vanity. Thinking is overrated anyway. Coarse, smooth, coarse. His thumb swirled across green jacquard, moving in time with the fingers twining into his hair, which kept time with the wandering tempo of Agatha’s humming.


End file.
